


White Swan

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daredevil, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 15:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6246193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Blanchard girls know how to take a punch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Swan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [baiservole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/baiservole/gifts).



> That feeling when you start writing a fic about a year ago, put it in your wip folder, take it back because you decide it would be a great birthday gift for a friend, and then proceed for months to pretending like you abandoned the fic when said friend keeps asking you about it.
> 
> Happy birthday Cee! I love you to bits, but I love trolling you even more apparently.

_In the dumpster where you belong_.

Emma coughs a laugh as Elsa’s voice rings in her mind, laced with sarcasm and the way Emma imagine her best friend would roll her eyes. Her chuckle tastes like iron on her tongue, warm and metallic, and ends in a groan when her lungs fill with air with a bolt of pain. Her breathing comes shallow and laboured, the telltale sign of broken ribs – they’d just healed, what a shame. Her leg burns too, and she can’t exactly move the fingers from her right hand right now. She’s pretty sure her thumb is broken, and with it two other fingers.

In conclusion, not bad.

She’s still in the dumpster, though, which isn’t exactly the best place in the world when your opponent may or may not be still ready to fight. That, and the perfume of cabbage and dead things will follow her for at least a week. She’ll have to wear heavy-smelling perfume, probably, and it will be a nightmare.

Not as much of a nightmare as bleeding out in a dumpster but, still.

She tries to move her hand, the good one, but her muscles scream in agony before she can even prop herself up on her elbow, and she falls back against the trash with yet another grunt. It doesn’t look good. Not with the drop of blood escaping her lips and rolling down her cheek, not with the sirens singing in the distance and the cat meowing curiously above her head. The other guy must be knocked out, or worse, because she can’t hear him anywhere no matter how hard she tries – it gives her a few moments to gather herself, but it will prove useless if she can’t fucking _move_.

 _Thump-thump_.

Her ears peak out, head tilting to the side as to follow the soft beating of the heart – not so soft as footsteps move closer, matching her own racing heart. Yes. God, please yes, let someone find her – a desperate thought for a desperate time, but her lungs feel like collapsing any moment now, and Emma isn’t suicidal enough to deny someone’s help right now.

At least she hopes it is someone’s help. If not, well – she tried. She tried her goddam hardest, and no one can take that away from her. Perhaps it is all that matters. She doesn’t know anymore, her head spinning, her ears catching some mumbled words in what may or may not be in Spanish. She recognizes the signs, dizziness and light-headedness and all that jazz – recognizes them, just in time to think _I’m going to pass out_.

And she does.

 

…

 

_“Mom! Mom!” Her fingers claw at the pavement, skin breaking and blood covering her hands crimson. Her legs twitch uselessly against the ground, toes curling in her boots, as she closes her eyes, tears pearling at the corners – it burns, hot and biting, burns so much she wants to scream, cry, yell. And she does, maybe, throat hoarse around her words of desperation, throat burning with sobs and wails of pain._

_“Emma! Oh my god, Emma!” Her mother’s voice rings to her side, and then cold fingers touch her face, her neck, her body. She grabs her mother, by the arms maybe, or the waist, choking on a cry, strangling herself with a sob._

_“Mom. I can’t – I can’t see. I can’t_ see _.”_

_Her mother hums a tune under her breath, runs her finger down Emma’s hair. Even then, droplets fall on the girl’s face, cold and salty at the corner of her mouth, only fuelling her own tears as her nails dig into her mother’s skin, hurt and desperate. “The doctors are on their way. The doctors are coming, darling.”_

_“_ I can’t see _.”_

_“I know.” She’s never heard her mother so heart-broken before. “I know, darling.”_

 

…

 

She wakes up with a gasp wrenched from her mouth.

Her fingers curl into the fabric of a blanket, soft to the touch beneath her calloused hands – fleece, her brain tells her after a few seconds. Fleece, and unknown, as with everything else around her, attacking her senses in waves – the tic-tac of an old clock somewhere to her left, the creaking wood of the door and floor, the tripping water of the sink down the hall. Spices and alcohol and pizza from the previous night and stale food in the fridge; warmth, so much warmth, and yet coldness too, from a place barely lived in, nothing but somewhere to crash at the end of the day. She knows the feeling.

“Careful,” a voice rings above her, tongue rolling around the vowels in the deep staccato of a British accent. “You’ll pull out your stitches.”

Her fingers tighten around the blankets, knuckles turning white as she freezes for a moment – her leg still burns, but with alcohol this time, as does her forehead and her arm. Her ribs are still broken, though, she’ll need to wrap them careful if she doesn’t want to make it worse than it already is.

But, mostly, there is the question of the British stranger.

“Who are you?” she asks, straight to the point, because she can’t be bothered to do small talk when her pants are long gone, along with her dignity apparently.

The kitchen is to her left, basic one-bedroom apartment like there are a thousand more in New York. Maybe there is a lamp somewhere she could use as a weapon, but she very much doubts so. She can take him down with her bare hands, if he turns out to be a problem, but she’ll most likely pull out her stitches and bleed out on his floor anyway. Which, not ideal.

She needs to be clever about this.

He scratches his chin, nails against five o’clock beard, and wets his upper lip, pondering on his words – his heartbeat is steady, if a little faster than normal, and it reassures her somehow, his nervousness. “My name is Killian,” he replies at last. Killian, no family name, no details. Not that she can blame him. He did just find her in a dumpster, after all.

“And I guess you won’t tell me your name,” he goes on after a pause, adds a sigh for emphasis. “Or look at me, for all it matters.”

The chuckle escapes her before she can swallow it down, nervous and automatic. “I wish I could,” is all she replies before his heart starts dancing the samba against his chest. If she focused, she could probably feel the heat around his face go up ever so slightly. It’s somewhat endearing.

“Bloody hell, how –” He doesn’t finish his sentence. Doesn’t need to. “They think you’re a _bloke_.”

She laughs and it hurts – it’s not often people manage to take her by surprise these days, and he did so easily she can only grace him with the sound of her laughter, as ragged as it is with her lungs still crying in agony. Still doesn’t stop her body from tensing when his fingers brush against her shoulder – he might just make sure she doesn’t move too much, least she makes it worse, but she reacts anyway.

He backs away, for which she’s grateful, and she carefully raises a hand to brush her hair off her face – stops in her track with a small gasp when she notices her hood is no longer hiding her face, the scrap of wool against skin no longer felt. She wipes her hand against her forehead, still, and sighs not to panic.

“You saw my face,” she states, more for her own sake than his.

“Quite lovely, too,” he replies, concern at the edge of his flirty voice.

She frowns in his general direction, just to make a point, and wills her heart not to speed up. This is okay, this is just one guy – one guy who patched her up and keeps being kind to her, for reasons unknown. Emma is good at reading people, has to be if she wants to survive in this world; her bullshit detector hasn’t pinged yet, and she believes her own guts enough to know he means no harm.

She doesn’t trust him, _can’t_ trust him, but. Still.

“Why are you helping me?” she asks as she forces herself to sit up, grinding her teeth at each and every muscle of her body screaming in agony as she does so. Thankfully, he neither tries to stop her nor to help her, even if she can feel his concern rolling in waves against her skin.

When she’s finally in a more dignifying position, hands digging in the cushions of the couch to keep her upwards, she glares in his general direction. Her hair is falling in wet strands around her face – sweat or blood, she can’t tell – so she knows she doesn’t look like someone to mess up with. Answers she wants, and answers she’ll get.

“Roland found you in the dumpster, all bloody and broken. I used to be a medic in the Navy, so the lad came for my help.” She vaguely remembers those words in Spanish she heard before passing out, and it makes sense that they didn’t come from him. His voice sounds like Eton and Cambridge and learning dead languages, not like fluent-in-Spanish. “I’ve read about you in the newspapers. They say you saved those orphan girls from slave trafficking. Whatever else they’re blaming you for, you did save those girls. It must count for something.”

The corner of her mouth tugs up as his words, even if smiling hurts right now. It is the first time she’s hearing someone who isn’t Elsa or Henry praising her for saving instead of blaming her for destroying, and it warms her deep within her belly to know some people might not agree with the reputation the newspapers are forcing on her. That some people might see her for whom she truly is, a friend instead of a foe.

“That I did,” she replies softly as she pulls all her strength on her arms to try and stand up. He’s all lovely and nice, which she isn’t used to, but she needs to leave now, and possibly even track down the guy she was fighting with before his friends come and track _her_ down instead. But the world is dizzy around her – a strange feeling to have when you can’t see your surroundings, one she’ll never get used to – and so she grabs the back of the couch not to sit back with a sigh.

“Are you –”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m –”

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence, turns her head towards the wall to her left, raising a hand for him to keep silent too. He does so without a complain, allowing her to focus on the world around her, on the hallway by the other side of the door, the staircase at the end of it, the heavy and hurried footsteps making their way up. She curses under her breath before focusing back on the man in front of her.

“How long was I out?”

“I don’t know,” he says, his voice hesitant. “Twenty minutes at least. Maybe even twenty-five.”

Emma curses once more as she makes her way around him and towards his kitchen, adrenaline kicking in just enough for her to ignore her wounds. She finds a drawer easily, rummages through it until her fingers wrap around a kitchen knife. (Never underestimate a bachelor’s need to buy sharp toys he’ll never use.)

“Listen to me,” she tells him as she comes back to the living room and stands in front of him, pointing the knife at what she hopes to be his chin. “They’re coming for me. Two, bigger than you are. Don’t even try, okay? Can you lie to them? Are you a good liar?”

His heart is drumming furiously against his ribcage; so much so that Emma worries he won’t be able to lie to save his life. Well, tough luck, because that’s exactly what she needs him to do right now. At least he doesn’t question her – not how she navigated around his apartment like a walk in the park, not how she knows who is coming to get them. Instead, he heaves a sigh, and does something that might as well be running his hand through his hair.

“I – Sorry. Aye. I can do that.”

She smiles. “Did you just nod?”

“Shut up.”

Her amusement is short-lived when a loud knocking on the door startles them both into moving. Killian towards the door, Emma behind it as not to be seen from the two men. He swallows down, loud enough that anyone could hear, before he cleans his throat. The fabric of his jeans rumples a little when he rubs his hands against it before he reaches for the door handle.

“NYPD, please open the door,” one of the man says from the other side of the door, in an accent that isn’t quite American enough to be believable.

“NYPD, wow,” Killian replies as he opens the door, just enough to see what is going on in the hallway. Emma rolls her eyes at the way his voice raises an octave or two, strained and forced. “Is there a problem?”

“Sorry to bother you so late, sir. My name is Detective Gisborne with the 219th Precinct. We’ve had a bit of a disturbance down the road, we’re asking everyone around the block if they’ve seen or heard anything unusual tonight.”

“What kind of disturbance?” Killian asks, his voice a little more even now.

“Armed robbery,” the fake cop replies, and Emma hurts her eyes from rolling them too hard. “Some dickhead in a black mask attacked a store.”

Smiling hurts too, as it turns out, and Emma swallows down a snort that could be either amused or painful – a little bit of both, perhaps. Killian, on the other hand, sucks in a breath, and it sobers her down quite effectively. She doesn’t believe he would turn her down now, not after patching her up and telling her the things he told her, but every second of silence is a second closer to blowing up their cover and –

“No, no,” he says. “I’ve been watching the telly all night long, actually. Didn’t hear a thing.”

Silence doesn’t quite linger between his answer and the cop’s, “Okay then. Just being thorough.” A shiver crawls up Emma’s spine all the same, though, for she can hear the dangerous edge to the man’s voice, even in so little words. Her grip tightens around the handle of the knife, jaw clenching as she forces herself not to move and do something irrational. Killing a man in cold blood in front of the guy who basically saved her life isn’t high on her list of priorities right now.

“Sorry I couldn’t help,” Killian concludes with an almost self-predicating smile, like he actually feels bad about not being able to help the cops in their would-be investigation. Emma almost believes the sincerity in his words. Almost.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” the second man chimes in. “Have a good night, sir.”

“Aye, you too.”

Killian closes the door softly, the ‘click’ of the lock echoing in the silence between them. Emma closes her eyes and leans her head against the wall, counting to ten and bracing herself. Her ribs hurt from standing up for too long, and she’s pretty certain she can’t feel her arm anymore – it’s hard to tell, when her entire body is simultaneously hurting and feeling numb.

When she makes it to ten, she stands straighter again, muscles groaning with the effort it takes, and shoves Killian to the side – he was leaning against the door, his position not alike hers, and he stumbles on his own feet in surprise.

“What the –”

“They didn’t believe you,” is all she replies.

 

…

 

Her hand brushes against the wall of the hallway as Emma tries, but mostly fails, to be stealthy, her footsteps not as quite as she would want them to be. The last thing she needs right now if for Henry to wake up and see her like that – not that he never saw her in a bad shape, but the blood is still dry on her face and she would like it better if it were only bruises and scratches.

The wood floor creaks somewhere in the kitchen, having Emma still and alert despite her ragged breathing. But the footsteps approaching her are soft instead of Henry’s loud stomping, and she relaxes with her head leaning against the wall. Elsa gasps when she sees her, not that Emma can blame her for that – she must be quite the sight, after all.

Her best friend doesn’t ask questions though, has stopped a long time ago, and for that Emma is grateful. She isn’t in the mood to share tonight, just wants to pass out in her bed before it is time to wake up, prepare Henry’s breakfast, go to work.

Elsa wraps an arm around Emma’s shoulders, taking some of her weight out of her as she guides her to the bedroom. Her breathing is fast, the telltale sign of her frustration. Not that Emma can blame her for that either – after years of her best friend showing up half dead in the middle of the night, she would be pissed too.

“Someone patched you up,” Elsa says at last, once they are inside Emma’s room.

Emma sighs, itching to run a hand through her hair even when her muscles scream in agony. She liked it better when Elsa was silent, truth be told. She doesn’t want to talk about tonight’s events, and she especially doesn’t want to talk about Killian of all things.

“Yeah, someone did.”

Elsa huffs a little, even more frustrated than before.

“Be careful,” is all she says, her voice tense and clipped.

“Always am,” Emma replies through a groan as she puts her legs on the mattress and lies down against the headboard. Everything hurts, fuck. “Not everyone is the enemy.”

Elsa chocks on her huff this time, hair rustling on her shoulders as she shakes her head. She must have unbraided it at some point during the night, a rare feat. “Seeing how many times you get into trouble, one would think everyone is the enemy to you,” she replies, voice dripping with as much sarcasm as she can muster. “Or perhaps you just don’t make friend easy, what with your prickly personality…”

“I’m not prickly!”

Elsa laughs, soft and disbelieving. She has a point, maybe. Emma looks for trouble more often than not, but. But it’s not like she can help herself. It’s in her veins, this urge to protect the weak and the defenceless, to succeed where the police failed. She was raised that way, what with her mother then Mulan – she doesn’t know how not to be that way, after so many years trying to save the world and losing a bit of herself in the process. Where does Emma stop and the White Saviour begins? The lines got blurs such a long time ago.

“I’m fine, Elsa,” Emma goes on, softer, more open. She raises her hand, pain shooting up her arm and having her teeth clench, and Elsa takes it delicately between her cold fingers, squeezing enough to share her worry but not to hurt. “He was one of the good ones, I swear.”

She doesn’t know how she can state such a fact with certitude – she only just met Killian and, for all she knows, he could have been playing her all night long. But he remained by her side when she tortured a guy for information, barely even flinched at her unbottled anger. His heartbeat was steady when he patched her up again after a few stitches popped out, his hands not trembling at all.

Emma always prides herself with how good she is at reading people – she wants to believe she wasn’t wrong about Killian. He is one of the (very few) good ones, and she was lucky that he found her tonight, that he helped her tonight. She doesn’t know what would have happened, if someone else had gotten her out of that dumpster.

“ _He_?” Elsa asks, the tone of her voice leaving little room to interpretation.

“Yeah, _he_.” Emma rolls her eyes. “Just because you don’t care about men, doesn’t mean they’re not fifty percent of the world’s population.”

Elsa chuckles softly. “But only one usually helps you out.”

“ _Henry_ ,” they both say at the same time in a smile. Emma shakes her head as much as the pain in her neck will allow her, which isn’t much. She sighs, before she admits, “I probably would be dead if it wasn’t for him.”

It’s a strange confession to make, but Elsa tightens her hold on Emma’s fingers, aware of the strength it takes her to open up on her weaknesses. They’ve known each other for years, but it’s still hard for Emma to allow herself to share her deepest feelings even with the woman she considers a sister. It’s easier to keep things to herself and soldier on, to put the needs of others in front of hers. Easier, but lonelier too, at times.

“If you trust him then so do I.”

Emma smiles, is the one squeezing Elsa’s fingers this time. “Thanks. I’ll probably never see him again, but thanks.”

“Any time.” Elsa’s hand slips out of her as she stands up. “Now get some sleep. You obviously need it.”

“You have no idea,” Emma groans as she settles more comfortably in her bed.

She passes out before Elsa even has time to leave the room.

 

…

 

The next few weeks are just a wild-goose chase against Gold and his minions. She doesn’t get into too many fights, thankfully, so her ribs have time to heal – as much as your ribs can heal when your entire body has been bruised and battered so many times before. The bits and pieces of information she manages to gather can barely be described as intel, and Emma is exhausted from too many a sleepless night. She has to wake up and get ready for school in the morning, has to keep a straight face in front of Henry and then, later, in front of her clients. The sunglasses help to hide the bags under her eyes (and sometimes even a black eye) but she knows she can’t go on like this forever.

Even the White Saviour has her limits.

Even then, she doesn’t want to take a day off, not when the city might need her, not when she might be one step closer to finding Gold. Henry has to drag her (physically or otherwise) to the diner around the corner for a much needed break, just because she won’t stop pacing the kitchen while he tries to do his homework. Guilt surges through her veins immediately – all she wants is for her kid to get a good and normal childhood, the kind she never got, and yet she still manages to ruin everything for him with her obsession for Gold.

So Emma accepts Granny’s hot chocolate with cream and cinnamon on top without even complaining once. She accepts to sit at the booth in the corner, and even accepts Henry ordering two pieces of pie instead of one. He is allowed a treat, once in a while, and it’s been a very long time since they went out, just the two of them. Her son deserves to be pampered.

And he’s so good about it, the pretending everything is normal thing – he’s so good at chatting away while stuffing himself with baked good, at telling her all about his latest science project, at acting casual when he talks about Violet, who’s new in their class. Just listening to him, Emma would believe their life is normal too – just a single mother and her son, having quality time together on a Saturday afternoon.

He’s in a middle of a sentence about the school’s next visit to the museum when he stops suddenly. Emma knows her son by heart, and she doesn’t need her superpowers to read the feelings she can’t see on his face or in the tense set of his shoulders. Everything about him screams of suspicion and, not for the first time, Emma wonders what he looks like when he is frowning.

“Someone’s staring at you,” he tells her in a whisper so low she can only make out the words thanks to her enhanced hearing.

“Kid, it’s barely the first time, you…”

“This one’s different.”

She frowns. She’s always taught her son to follow his instincts, that it would keep him out of danger more often than not – a family feature, if you will, but it has always worked for them so far. So if he tells her the person staring at her isn’t just someone who’s snoopy about the white cane and sunglasses, well, Emma believes him. It would be counterproductive not to.

“Okay then,” she starts, and that’s when she hears it.

The heartbeat is familiar, calm and steady in its owner’s ribcage. Emma wouldn’t go as far as to say she would recognize it anywhere, but it’s still familiar enough that it makes her stop, that she allows her other senses to take over and confirm her theory – not that there was any doubt to begin with.

“Stay there, I’ll be right back.”

She grabs her white cane and unfolds it. Granny’s is a familiar enough place that she could not use the cane and still find her way, but she doesn’t want to risk stumbling on a bag on the floor, nor does she want to use her radar powers if she doesn’t have to. They are too draining for her to use them in her everyday life, even if it would make things easier. But she is used to the cane, too, so it’s not like it’s a problem – not anymore.

The stool next to Killian’s is empty, so she sits on it, folding her arms on the counter. She doesn’t know what to say at first – if there is anything to say at all, in a situation such as theirs.

“I’ve been looking for you,” out of his mouth isn’t exactly something she expected, though.

“Did you?” she replies, her shoulders stiffening. She refuses to believe she was wrong about him, but also refuses to let her feelings get the better of her – she needs to be careful, especially in public and especially with Henry so close by.

“Aye. You’re not an easy lass to find,” is what he replies at first. He stops to take a sip of his drink, the strong aroma of the coffee tickling her nose. “Not that I can blame you for it, obviously.”

“What do you want?”

He must notice the edge to her voice, or the clench of her jaw, for he cuts to the chase immediately. Good on him, really, because Emma has no patience for those kinds of games, especially when they are unexpected. She doesn’t like being taken by surprise by her enemies, even less so by people she thought to be her allies.

“You’re going after Gold, aren’t you?” he shots back, low, leaning toward her. Obviously not a conversation they should be having in public, and perhaps not even a conversation they should be having at all. “It took me a few days to understand, but you are.”

It leaves her speechless, if only for a second. _Think fast_ , her mother used to say before throwing something at her, and Emma would always catch it. She thinks fast now, measuring the pros and the cons, coming to conclusions, evaluating the risks.

“Not here,” she replies to him, before she stands up.

He doesn’t complain, just stands up too and grabs his leather jacket on the back of his stool, from the sound of it. Still he doesn’t move, and for that she is grateful, when she goes back to her booth where Henry is still waiting for her. Her son perks up, hand on her wrist when she’s close enough for physical contact.

“Let’s go home,” is all she tells him.

His fingers tighten their hold around her wrist, but Henry knows better than to ask questions – he’s good at reading her mood, at knowing when to probe and when to accept the lack of information. So he just gulps down his hot chocolate, and drops the mug back on the table with little ceremony.

The walk back to their apartment is spent in a tense silence, Killian following a few feet behind. Emma feels a shiver crawling its way up her spine, but they will be safer in the comfort of their own place – and she has enough knives and sharp objects, not to mention her fighting skills, to protect herself and her son if needed. She simply hopes it will not come down to that, hopes that she wasn’t wrong about Killian.

(It’s a thought that comes back a lot, isn’t it?)

Henry, bless his heart, goes to lock himself in his bedroom the moment he enters their home, and she feels slightly relived at the ‘click’ of the door when he closes it behind him. She does lock the entrance door too, for good measure, before motioning for Killian to enter the kitchen, then getting rid of her jacket and her cane. She navigates through the kitchen to grab two glasses and the bottle of rum, dropping a nice amount in each glass before sliding one closer to him.

“Talk,” she tells him as she grabs her own drink.

The alcohol burns her throat, and then she discards her glass altogether – she would need more than one sip to get drunk, but you’re never too careful these days.

“Short version is, I was in the Navy. That’s how I patched you up the other day, I used to be a medic before I became a soldier and rose in the ranks. I’d made it to Lieutenant when I met Gold’s wife. I’ll spare you the details, but it ended up the way you think it would. Gold found out, and killed her in front of me. I’ve been trying to get him to pay ever since.”

(Gold’s wife… _Milah_.)

“There are cops for that, buddy.”

He scoffs. “ _You_ of all people telling of the importance of letting policemen do their job. Hypocritical much?”

Point taken. She smirks a little at that, even if she doesn’t give him the pleasure of agreeing with him, or the bigger even pleasure of admitting she’s a lawyer. Emma plays it fast and loose with the law, more often than not, and it goes against everything she was taught at university. Justice and revenge don’t always get along, but sometimes it is a necessary evil, when you’re facing Satan himself.

“So what?” she replies, with no small amount of sarcasm. “You want to team up? The Robin to my Batman?”

That does get a chuckle out of him. “I would rather be Dick Greyson, if you don’t mind.”

“Well, the name fits so…”

His laugh is a little louder and richer this time – the kind of laugh that warms you from the inside out on a cold winter afternoon. Emma shakes her head a little at the thought, and instead focuses on how she managed to insult him so easily and he didn’t even blink an eye. She still doesn’t know what to make of him, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of man to take offense so – it’s good, right?

“I work alone,” she goes on. “It’s easier that way, and I’m the only one who takes the fall.”

She refuses to think about her father, but of course it means the memories are at the forefront of her mind in barely a few seconds. _Love is strength_ , her mother had told Emma when she was but a small girl. Love makes us strong, but the Evil Queen had turned it into a weakness when she had killed David Blanchard in front of the White Bandit. Love was weakness too when the White Bandit died after her husband, leaving behind a girl turned orphan and a city turned playground for villains.

“I’m not asking to be your sidekick, love.” He reaches for her hand, startling her. She jerks her hand back, and he sighs. “But I have gathered some intel through the years, if you want. And I’m guessing you would rather have a personal medic than go to the hospital.”

This is madness, Emma knows it is. What kind of intel Killian has that Emma hasn’t gathered yet? She’s been doing this for months (years?), and she can list all of Gold’s associates now – De Vil, Gaston, Jafar, even Pan. She’s been looking and interrogating and punching, with little results. What has Killian found that she hasn’t yet?

But – but the thought of a personal medic is tempting too. She remembers all too well the one time she went to the hospital, only for the nurses to ask a hundred times if she had a violent boyfriend she wanted to talk about. The excuse of roller derby only got her so far. Doctors are too nosy for her, but enemies too dangerous for her body. She wouldn’t say no to good stitches once in a while, or even just a tight bandage around her arm, her chest. God knows how she’s still alive, at this point.

“Fine,” she agrees at last.

When she holds her hand up, he grabs it and it feels like more than a simple handshake. It feels like a promise neither of them is ready to make out loud, not quite yet. Killian’s thumb is pressed against her wrist, his heartbeat drumming in rhythm with hers. She will regret this, probably, but for now she appreciates having an ally who isn’t her son or her best friend.

It makes for a refreshing novelty.


End file.
